One Hundred
by safe.from.harm
Summary: One of the hundred themes challenges. Mostly Reid-centric, with some Hotch/Reid thrown in. Overall rating is T, but there will be some M chapters. Some are going to be light, funny or romantic, and some are going to be... not so much.
1. introduction

**A/N:**

Before I start this little adventure, you, my loyal readers (all two of you) should know some things.

.If you're anything like me, you get hooked on a story—so I'm sorry to say that this piece comes second to my first baby, which is 'Sympathy for the Devil'. This one is a really good muse starter, though, so this will probably get updated pretty often.

.I'm putting a word limit on myself for these little things—they're either going to be two, three or five hundred words.

.Most of them are going to be Reid-centric (though that shouldn't surprise anyone that's even vaguely familiar with my writing), but there may or may not be some Reid/Hotch thrown into the mix. I don't think any of it is going to be particularly graphic, but I'll let you know in the chapter title if there's going to be drugs, sex or any of that yummy stuff.

That said, happy reading!


	2. skinny

Spencer Reid had never considered himself particularly attractive. He was pitiful-looking; Garcia had long ago convinced him of that, with her constant exclamations that he looked desperately in need of a good six-course meal. And, of course, Morgan had exclaimed that he looked emaciated on more than one occasion—usually when they were all changing into their gear for a raid; Reid usually waited until last to avoid that very statement, but it had been unavoidable that night, and Morgan had spent a minute or two counting, very vocally, the knobs in Reid's spine. The young agent had whirled, eyes narrowed, but it hadn't stopped Morgan, because damn near nothing stopped Morgan when he was on one of his rants, especially if he thought his rant was helping someone else.

Finally, after nearly a week of Morgan leaving pictures of food on his desk, chair and taped to his monitor, Reid had enough and nearly got into a shouting match with him in the middle of the bullpen—instead, he had pulled him into the conference room, slamming the door behind him.

"You're aware that JJ and Rossi have both asked—quite seriously, might I add—if I have an eating disorder?" Reid demanded, pacing in front of Morgan; he wasn't giving the other agent time to talk. "A twenty-six-year-old man with an eating disorder," he added, disgusted; he knew that it was possible, but it certainly wasn't plausible. "They don't believe me, and you're not helping in the fucking _slightest_."

"Alright," Morgan said, hands up in the defensive position. "Hotch already talked to me about it, chill the fuck out, okay?"

That stopped Reid, and, as Morgan walked out, Hotch walked in—it was obvious that he'd been standing outside the door, listening to Reid's little explosion. The older man shut the door carefully behind him, jerked down the blinds, and stepped over to Reid, ran a broad hand down his back: Reid couldn't suppress his shudder.

"He's right, you know," Hotch said quietly, shifting his hand so that his fingertips were tracing the knobs of his spine, the jutting bones of his shoulderblades. "I've always thought you were too skinny."

And, though Reid would admit it to absolutely no one, he made a little promise to himself to try and eat when he needed to—because if Hotch thought he was too skinny, he was too skinny.


	3. spits

There is a resounding crack as Caleb Harrison hits Reid directly in the mouth with the barrel of his gun, and—though Reid has been hit in the mouth more than is probably proportionate to his age—it hurts like a bastard. But it means that Morgan can hold his gun on Harrison and bark out the familiar order—_hands up, weapon down_—and that the gun falls to the dirt. Reid backs up, letting Morgan force Harrison's hands behind his back, chivvying him into the back of the waiting police car. Reid's job was done: he was supposed to goad Harrison into drawing his weapon, though he was quite sure that he wasn't supposed to be hit with it.

"You okay?" Rossi asks, and Reid nods, reaching up to touch his lip; his fingertips come away wet and sticky with blood. "Sorry about that... you weren't supposed to get hit, I don't think," the older agent adds.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says quietly, automatically, and Rossi nods, turning towards Morgan and the unsub. Reid pauses for a moment, probing a loose tooth with his tongue, and spits a mouthful of blood on the ground, saying, after a moment, "Fuck."


	4. are you challenging me?

"Morgan!"

Hotch is following Morgan, dark eyes narrowed, jaw set, and Reid knows in that moment that there's going to be a fight—quite possibly the only person on the team that knows, because he's the only one that quickens his pace.

"Morgan! Derek!" Morgan keeps walking, his stride long and angry and powerful, and Hotch breaks his measured stride to catch him. He grabs Morgan's shoulder and forces him roughly around to face him, and their faces are inches apart—

"Don't fucking touch me!" Morgan shouts, shoving Hotch's shoulders, but the older agent stands his ground: Morgan is a good two inches taller than Hotch, but Hotch is radiating danger.

"What's your problem, Morgan?"

"The way you fucking handled that unsub—you could've gotten us all killed, you—"

"Are you fucking challenging me?" Hotch snarls, and—this is what truly throws Reid—shoves him back. Morgan draws back his fist and Reid is suddenly bolting towards them, standing between the two alpha males, feeling the tension in waves between them. Prentiss, Rossi and JJ are standing near the wall, shocked.

"Stop it," he says, quietly; he knows that neither will do anything while he's standing between them, one skinny, long-fingered hand on each of their chests, placating. "You two are going to get on the plane and talk this out like rational human beings. Go. Morgan first."

Hotch lags behind after the girls, Rossi and Morgan all head into the plane, and Reid feels a hand on his skinny arm so that he stays back.

"...Thanks," Hotch says, not looking at him. "I... lost my temper." A pause; he looks up, his eyes meeting Reid's for a moment. "But don't get between Morgan and I ever again."

Reid drops his gaze, bottom lip between his teeth. "Yes, sir."


	5. hold my hand

"Hotch—"

Reid's hand is slippery with blood, but for once in a long while it's not his own: Aaron Hotchner is trembling, the gunshot wounds in his shoulder and thigh bleeding freely, soaking through the towels that Reid had tried to use as a makeshift tourniquet. Reid drops to his knees, Hotch's hand in between both of his own; Prentiss is behind him on the phone with the emergency services.

"Reid," Hotch says softly, weakly, then shakes his head and says, as though correcting himself, "Spencer." Hotch's hand slips out of Reid's grip and the younger agent grabs it again, fiercely, refusing to let go. "Take my hand," he murmurs, and he can't help but by a little surprised that his voice is steady. "Hold my hand, Aaron—" His voice does break there, but he doesn't know if Hotch hears it. "Don't let go."

"The ambulance is coming," Prentiss says, and Hotch's eyes close; Reid, though he can see the rise and fall of Hotch's chest, feels utter, complete terror spark in his chest.

"How long?" he asks, not looking away from Hotch, and Prentiss says, "Dispatch said less than five." A pause, then, "How's he feeling?"

"Hurts," Hotch says, his voice quiet—so, Reid knows, Prentiss won't hear the weakness in it. "I'll live."

"You fucking better," Reid murmurs, so that only Hotch can hear him, and a smile flickers over Hotch's face. They hear the distant wail of the ambulance a ways off, and Hotch's grip tightens for a moment before loosening so much that it nearly slips out of Reid's. Reid tightens his own grip, whispers, "Don't let go," and, almost desperately, "Hold my hand, Aaron, please, don't let go..."

"I won't," Hotch murmurs, drawing in a shaky breath as the ambulance nears. "I won't."


	6. tenacious

"But—hey, wait!"

"Oh, God." Hotch covers his face with one hand as Reid gestures for the security guard to return. They're taking a commercial airplane because, for once, they're not on FBI business—personal, this time. They're going to Paris, both of them, a vacation that's been planned for almost a year.

"If you're so worried about bombs, why are you letting me keep my laptop batteries?"

"What?" The guard obviously doesn't have time for this, but Spencer Reid is nothing if not tenacious.

"If I overvolted them and breached their cells, it could potentially cause a sizeable explosion—"

"Spence." Hotch puts a hand on his boyfriend's arm and offers an apologetic half-smile to the guard. "Drop it. Please?"

"No! It's completely illogical that I can't keep a bottle of water, but I can keep my _potentially explosive laptop batteries_."

Reid gives up, eventually, but he remains frustrated until Hotch presses their lips together in an unprecedented burst of public affection.


	7. size

Reid walks into Garcia's room—or her cave, as he calls it, always grinning—and perches on the edge of her spare chair. She spins, watching him with raised eyebrows.

"Yes, brain muffin?"

Reid has that look on his face that means that he's deeply contemplating something; she's seen him wearing it when he's staring at a map and a computer screen and a book, but rarely at thin air like he is now.

"I was thinking," he begins, and she giggles.

"When aren't you thinking?"

"True, but—this occurred to me..."

He leans back, props his feet up on the only unused table in the entire room, and puts crossed arms behind his head.

"I'm pretty sure that ego size and penis size are inversely proportional."

Garcia's laughter is so loud that Hotch pokes his head in, looks at Reid—who sits there, grinning and slightly red-faced, but utterly triumphant.

And Hotch says, after a moment, "I don't want to know," and leaves.


	8. rightfully mine

**A/N: Alright, OOC or not, this one makes me laugh. If it's so OOC that it makes it unenjoyable for you, sorry, but don't ruin it for me! Haha. Enjoy, or try to. **

Garcia, JJ, and Morgan are all sitting at one table; Prentiss is out on the floor; Reid and Hotch are at the bar, though Hotch is standing a ways away from Reid, observing the people on the dancefloor. Garcia and Morgan are slightly out of breath, having just returned from roughly the same area that Prentiss is currently residing, dancing closely with a lithe redhead in a tight, sparkly black dress.

JJ is the first to notice the tall, slender young man speaking to Hotch; he's slightly similar to Reid in appearance—decently tall, slim, slightly darker hair—but nothing like him in manner; he runs a fingertip down the agent's bare arm, and JJ can practically see him purring. She nudges Garcia, who watches the scene unfold with wide eyes; Morgan follows their eyes after a second. They're close enough to hear what's said, but they have to strain a little over the thumping bass.

"So... who are you here with?" His voice is low and sultry and belongs either in a bedroom or a club, and Hotch is most definitely neither impressed nor interested. "I mean, I can't imagine somebody like you coming here alone..."

This time, it's Garcia noticing something first: Reid is staring at Hotch and this new young man with an unreadable expression. JJ and Morgan notice shortly after she does, and Morgan says, "Oh, shit," as Reid walks over to them.

None of them know what they expect to happen, but it's not what _does_ happen: Reid wraps his thin fingers around Hotch's wrist and pulls slightly, enough that the older man turns towards him. In one fluid movement, Reid's hand is at the back of Hotch's neck and their lips are pressed together in a deep, seamless kiss.

Reid breaks the kiss first and stares at the young man that had approached Hotch.

"_I'm _here with him." He brings up a hand and makes a little shooing motion that makes Garcia giggle. "Bye now."

Hotch winds an arm around Reid's skinny waist and they walk back to the table; Hotch is laughing and shaking his head, murmuring, "God, I love you."


End file.
